It had been a week since Jormand and his travelling companions had set out from Maerin and they had covered enough ground that he would have been satisfied if they had been on the march for half again as long. Their little party moved with surprising swiftness, even with the wagon and the people who were not used to marching for campaign. Jormand was both happy that he was the only thing slowing them down as well as embarrassed that he had not quite recovered from his fall on the first day. What he had at first taken to be some bruising and soreness had persisted for days, long enough that he was reasonably sure that he had fractured at least one rib. His knees were still bruised as well, but they did not bother him nearly as much as the ribs. Each step he took jostled the injury but if he tried to smooth his stride, he inevitably fell behind the others. He had tried taking Elyas’s seat on the wagon on the second day, but the metal rimmed wheels of the wagon made each miniscule dip and unavoidable rock feel like a canyon as the wagon trundled on. The spirited warhorse that pulled the wagon did not help either with its brisk step. The beast was obviously oversized for the simple wagon and whenever it took too big of a step, the entire wagon would shake. Jormand had resigned himself to walking again only halfway through the day and had remained there ever since.

He could be thankful, at least, that his nose was healing well. The swelling had gone down substantially and it only really hurt if he prodded at it. He had been forced to sleep on his back against habit, but he had been tired enough each day since departing that he had had little trouble. Physical exhaustion from a day’s journey topped off with lively conversation around the fire into the night made for a good night’s sleep most nights. Dipping into their wineskins helped too. The weather had been mild as well, expected for the southerlands but also welcome. The worst of it had been a sprinkling of rain during the afternoon on the fourth day, but all was dry by the evening and the chill that came from autumn trying to stake its claim was more pleasant than a bother during long days on the road.

Jormand was surprised at just how well the journey had been going. For the most part, everyone had been getting along well, with the exception of Ketrim, who was suspicious of the way Lana had come to join them. It was understandable if a slight overreaction, and he rarely let it become a problem. Elyas and Gisela had turned out to be pleasant companions as well, Elyas with his stories and Gisela with her lute. The two of them made the evening meals of travel rations seem like banquets. Banquets without the tiresome conversation of high society. Jormand had done his part as well. The campaigns of his youth had taught him how to scrounge for food, or rather Galier had, during those campaigns. Galier had always turned his nose up at salted meat and hardtack. Jormand was surprised just what he could do with a few wild tubers and onions as well as a sprig of thyme. The tough salted meat softened nicely in a stew and on more than one occasion, Gisela had managed to fell a rabbit with that bow of hers. No matter if it was poaching, there were no game wardens patrolling the flatlands between Maerin and the border. If not for the constant anxiety that a garrison might still be on their tail, it would have been an enjoyable trip.

Things had been going well, that was, until the seventh day. It had begun like many of the days before. Jormand first stirred in his blankets as the sun peeked over the horizon. He lay there with his eyes closed, unwilling to meet the day, until the others began to stir. As always, Lana wriggled out from her blanket roll first and set to rebuilding the fire. She had taken quickly to the task and now there was usually a fire burning and water boiling for tea in their blackened travel kettle by the time that Jormand roused himself. That morning was different though. The coals had not been properly banked and a particularly heavy dew left them with nothing more than a useless pile of slightly damp ash. They elected to forgo the tea for the day and so a group of disgruntled travellers began their trek that morning, none in the highest of spirits. For Jormand’s part, he was particularly stiff that morning and his ribs ached more than usual. The others seemed just as moody and the road was quieter that day as they started on their way. They walked spread apart, each lost in their own brooding thoughts but at least they managed to keep a good pace in the morning. It would not last long, however.

Although they started out under clear skies, it was not long until clouds rolled in from the coast and quickly shadowed the flatlands from horizon to horizon. With the clouds came cold. Bitter cold and wind, not the light chill of days before. Soon everyone had donned a travelling cloak of tight-woven wool and walked hunched over to cut the wind. It was of little help. Small gusts whipped Jormand’s cloak around his shins, It was a little too short for him, and flung open the front from time to time to let in more cold. Still it was better than nothing, more so when it began to rain.

The rain came soft at first but it was only a prelude. It only increased in strength over time, slowly, until the drops were the size of Jormand’s knuckle and came as fast as any storm he had seen. For a while the thick cloak kept Jormand dry, long enough that it felt like a rude trick when the water began to seep through onto his shoulders, sending an uneasy chill down his back as the rainwater dripped down. Heightened winds blew the rain in through Jormand’s hood and soaked his feet in his boots. His feet went numb after a few miles, sodden and cold as they were, and his fingers were not far behind. His one blessing was that the cold soothed his nose that had begun to ache from the water droplets pelting against his face. It was a small blessing though.

As miserable as Jormand was, it was the others that he worried about. It had been a long time since Ketrim had been on campaign, longer still since he had been without tents in which to wait out bad weather in relative luxury. And Lana certainly had never had to march through a storm, for it was becoming a storm. Jormand knew the clouds well that foretold lightning. In the relatively open plains, they were at risk of being struck themselves. Still they pressed on. It would not matter if they stopped, the stunted trees of the flatlands were too sparse for cover.

After another mile or so, the first of the party climbed into the wagon to avoid the rain. It was Lana unsurprisingly. Jormand was glad that she had the sense to, he had seen too many headstrong soldiers push themselves too hard in the cold only to die of sickness later. Better that she knew her limits. Unfortunately, the warhorse pulling the wagon visibly slowed at the added weight. It had not been bred for burden and each additional passenger would only slow them further.

To add to the misery, the stone-paved road became slick enough that Jormand feared slipping, especially as his sight worsened with the rain. He walked near to the wagon as did everyone else, but even with one hand on the side for support, he knew he could not maintain his balance on numb feet for much longer. He could tell that the party was slowing. Poor vision and footing compounded the unpleasantness of the weather. It was miraculous that they kept any sort of pace at all, but Jormand knew full well that it would not last long.

At his first stumble, Jormand knew that it was time to climb into the wagon himself. He was hesitant to do so, knowing that the added weight would only slow them further, but Elyas saw him trip from his driver’s seat and would not take no for an answer. Soon Jormand sat hunched over in the back of the wagon across from Lana. He cast off his drenched cloak, but his clothes beneath were not much better off.

The mood in the wagon was as dreary as outside. Lana sat with her knees pulled up and her face buried in her arms and did not even look up when Jormand clambered in. She wore a blanket draped over her shoulders, a choice that Jormand thought to be a good idea, but he could not find one to access easily so he huddled grumpily against the short wooden wall of the wagon and hugged his knees to chest for warmth.

Midday came and went without halting, or at least Jormand thought so. It was hard to tell with the sun blocked out by clouds. He passed out meager rations to Ketrim and Gisela through the back of the wagon, receiving mumbled thanks, and he himself gnawed on a strip of tough salted pork moodily. Eventually Lana roused from her stupor as well and shifted over to him in search of food. To Jormand’s dismay, even with the additions of wild plants and game, their supplies had begun to run low. There should have been a small town not much further down the road, but with the rain Jormand was doubtful if they would make it there before nightfall. Lana had to make do with a strip of salted meat and a few pieces of dried fruit that she had packed away in her own bundle. They had all had to give up supplies for Lana, after all the wagon had only been packed only for four. Luckily they had plenty of blankets and a few extra cloaks. Food was the real problem but Elyas was sure they would make it to a town to restock before they ran out.

Lana mumbled a thanks for the meat and huddled against the wall next to Jormand where she chewed on the tough meat with the fervor of a wild animal. It was pleasant to have another source of warmth, however small, while she sat there but she moved away again after finishing her meal. For his part, Jormand finished off his rations and settled back glumly against the wall again. The rain still drummed steadily on the canvas roof overhead. The waxed fabric had not begun to leak yet, but Jormand knew it was only a matter of time. For the second time he wished that he could find a blanket of his own. His clothes were not drying and the damp cloth sapped what little heat his tired body managed to produce. His boots were the worst of all. It felt like they had accumulated small puddles inside the mostly waterproof leather. He should have drained them long since but numb fingers made undoing the toggles difficult. He sat with his hands jammed into his armpits for meager warmth but it hardly helped. The rest of him was still as cold as ever.

Riding in the wagon led to other issues for Jormand aside from discomfort. The constant rhythm of walking had kept Jormand’s head cleared for a week now, with little effort. The trouble was that when sitting in the wagon, with nothing to do, his mind began to wander and when it did, his thoughts went inevitably to things he would have preferred to forget. He considered trying to sleep, it was clear that he needed the rest, but when he closed his eyes images flashed that he did not want to see. Images of a cramped room splattered in blood and a pale face, too familiar but alien in its stillness. So he forced his eyes wide even though they began to sting. But that did not stop the thoughts. He needed something to do, something to keep himself busy. There were no chores to do in the back of the wagon and Lana did not seem to want to talk. He would empty his boots. He would find something else after.

Releasing the wooden toggles of his boots proved to be as difficult a task with slightly warmed fingers as without. The sturdy leather was waterlogged from the rain and cold and his fingers were numb again soon, but the difficulty of the task was to his benefit. Each toggle took several tries to release. He did not want to stretch the wet leather and his fingers felt unwieldy. He managed it eventually, though, and he pulled off one boot finally. He cast the substantial water within out the back of the wagon and set to working on the other boot. It was significantly easier than the first, even with increasingly numb fingers. Then it was time to deal with the soaked linen footwraps. They would only keep his feet wet and therefore cold, but with nothing else to cover his damp feet, he felt colder than ever. His pack had to be nearby somewhere but sorting through their bundles would only make a mess and would risk getting everything else damp in the process so he settled for huddling against the wall with crossed legs, alternately warming one foot or the other under the opposite thigh. It was not enough to keep his mind occupied and his eyes were only stinging more. As soon as he did relent and close them, he could not open them again for fear that the tears they held in would escape.

Jormand had not let himself think about the night his father died, not for more than a moment at a time. He had built an effective wall of constant exertion and exhaustion but now he was much too still and much too awake. He went back to that room again, it felt familiar in the most perverse way. He knew the ragged red patterns that spattered the rough wood floor. He resurrected them easily in his mind. He knew the table intimately, with its ruined map and crimson smears. He grasped at any part of the room that he remembered. The strange dress of the dead assassins. That odd, narrow sword in his hand. Anything was better than what lay beyond the table. But no matter what he tried to focus on, the image slid around him. Always back to those glassy eyes, too similar to those he saw in the mirror, that failed to meet his gaze. The slightly unkempt beard, spotted with blood and spittle. It was not the image of his father that Jormand wanted to remember, but more and more often it was the only one that he could summon to mind. In memories unrelated to that night, memories from years gone by, that face replaced his father, an unwelcome intruder in his past that he could not make leave.

Jormand could feel the tears beginning to leak out no matter how hard he screwed his eyes shut. He could feel sobs building in his chest so strongly that they hurt. He wanted to curl up into a tiny ball and cry but he could not make himself small enough and he could not let himself begin to cry, not where Lana and Elyas would surely hear him, maybe the others as well. But he wanted to. He needed to. The pain building in his chest was not all from his injured ribs. His lungs and throat burned from unreleased tension. His mind lost hold of the grisly subterranean scene but it mattered not one whit. He flitted from one memory to another, some he remembered fondly, others he did not. All were intruded upon alike by that spectre until he fled to another, hoping for some solace from his childhood or from memories of home. All were tainted, happiness was rendered bitter, anger became guilt, sorrow only deepened.

The tears began to flow more freely, he could do nothing to step them. He could feel his body shaking, whether from the cold or from the crying he did not know. Likely it was both. He had lost his composure long since. He tried to find solace, first in memory, then in pain. Martim Derran had not been a perfect man nor a perfect father. Far from it. When Jormand was just a boy, learning the crafts of war for the first time, Martim had been more of a terror than any battle. Jormand’s brain was etched with memories of nights spent out in the snow alone or days spent working himself raw only to receive naught but ridicule when he collapsed from the strain. Not all of the scars were invisible either. Jormand had only been fourteen when his father first ordered him into a vanguard shield wall in a minor border dispute. Jormand had taken a bad wound to his leg that day, he had nearly bled out while the battle raged around him, and when it ended, Martim gave him no pity. Only a derisive sniff and a lecture about the importance of awareness. Such were the memories that Jormand could bring to mind of his father but they did nothing to cut the sorrow he felt now.

Even those memories were not enough to take away the sting, they only added to it, like pouring salt onto a fresh wound. They used to make him angry, but now all he felt was regret at his failures and guilt that he could not find the source of, no matter how hard he tried. He descended further and further into the deep wells of memory with reckless disregard to what he might find. He needed something to reassure him that his father’s death was not so earth-shattering as it felt. He needed something to tell him that he still had a purpose to serve. He had spent a life filling the role of the tempered brute, a bear on a fragile leash to be set loose on the whims of the master. But now there was no longer a master to hold the leash and Jormand discovered he was not so much a bear as he had thought.

He was little more than a blubbering wreck when he felt a sudden wave of warmth wash over his still damp back. He looked up from hands that had gripped his face painfully. They were damp with tears now as well as his cheeks. Through bleary eyes he saw that Lana had returned to her seat by his side and her narrow blanket was draped over his shoulders as well. It was small and light, meant for travelling but she was small and he as small as he could be. It fit the two of them but only just. She wore an unreadable expression and did not meet his eyes but something in her posture spoke of sympathy. She did not speak and Jormand was glad of it. The warmth from the blanket and her small body felt like a summer sun next to the storm’s chill. Sobs still wracked him and left his throat and lungs feeling rough and raw, his eyes still stung from new tears but at least the shivvers were gone.